Sweet Innocence
by StarsOfYaoi
Summary: *FraIta* gift-fic for salmagundi. Italy will fight for independence, but there's one thing that he needs to give, and it belongs to France.


**SOY:** this was written as a gift to Salmagundi_fic on LJ. FraIta as per her request ^^ I'm sorry I made it this angsty…

……………………………………………

**Rating**: T

**Warnings:** shounen–ai, vague angst.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia. I do not make money for writing about it, but I do have fun.

……………………………………………

**Sweet Innocence**

**1848**

"Francis…?"

It was the hesitant tone that made France turn around, looking at an uncharacteristically serious Italy with a perplexed face.

That, and the fact that it was the first time Italy didn't use the word 'brother' when referring to him.

"_Petit_ Feli, what is the problem?" France smiled warmly at the other, leaning forwards to pat him on the head, a smile tugging at his lips; the Italian teen was quite cute after all, and France liked him a lot.

Italy stared at him in silence, tilting his head to the side.

France fidgeted, not understanding why he was suddenly feeling pressured; the brunette's eyes were wide open and staring at him, darker than usual, and the French nation was caught in them, unable to look away.

"I was thinking, Francis," Italy abruptly looked to the side, breaking the daze France was into, and turned around facing the window.

It was as if something clicked inside Italy's head, because his eyes turned suddenly warmer, and his lips twitched upwards in a smile that made France's heart skip a beat.

Looking outside, with the sun shining on his hair _just right_, brown eyes open… he looked beautiful and alluring. In times like these, France was suddenly reminded of the attractive in Italy that he often tried to forget –that kind of interest that he knew he shouldn't feel for him, because despite all the things people could say about France, cheater was not one of them.

Oh, it wasn't that _France_ had a lover, no.

But Italy was waiting, and this wait was so long that the French Nation could not see its end. He couldn't see if there was something at the end of that road either, but Italy was waiting for someone to whom offer his love.

And unfortunately that person was not France, no matter how different being in Italy's presence made him feel, no matter how a deep, almost forgotten part of him longed for the warmth that Italy provided, the smiles, the love…

France couldn't let himself fall down that road himself; he'd been the one to shatter Italy's first love, and he would let him free now.

He had seen the young, chubby kid turn into this teenager, blossoming from a terribly cute boy into this gorgeous person that called him brother… France knew he should settle down for that, and when he didn't think of it, when he didn't think of Italy's face, it was even easy to push everything down.

Family. He would be family to him.

Following the direction of Italy's gaze, France couldn't see anything that Italy could find remotely interesting to look at –it was just his garden in Paris, with the usual view on the Eiffel tower… Italy was often guest in France's house, he should be used to that sight.

"Feli?" trying to recapture Italy's attention, feeling as if he was missing something but unable to understand what, France moved forwards, wrapping the other in a tight embrace.

For a moment he thought about trying to turn that hug into something more –he would do that for anyone else, after all– but decided otherwise. With this mood, he wasn't sure he even wanted to do that.

He felt Italy stiffen in his arms, then relax, his eyes still looking in the distance.

"Is there something wrong, _petit frère_?" France pressed his chin on top of Italy's head, once again thinking how big he was getting.

"It's a beautiful sight" Italy replied, voice soft and humming.

The comment made something flutter inside France's chest, but he denied the feeling, inwardly steering himself away from any unwanted thought. Yet, he couldn't but feel elated, because Italy was complimenting his Paris, his territory, so he was complimenting _him_.

"_Merci_," he replied in an amused tone, smiling. "Is little Feli growing a crush on big bad Francis?"

He felt the Italian shift in his arms and let him go, vaguely surprised when he didn't receive a negative reply like always.

Italy turned around again, brown eyes once again staring into his own.

"My people… my people are restless, ve~" he stated.

His serious tone made the smile on France's lips disappear into nothing.

"Restless as…?"

"They want freedom. From you, from… from Austria. From everyone" dark brown, almost haunted. "It is going to be war, Francis, and for once, it'll be from me".

France stepped backwards, surprised.

Italy at war.

And not a war that someone else had started –this would be a war born in Italy, born from desire of freedom and justice.

Italy would go to war, too. Little Italy, with his paintings, his literature, his poems –the same poems and books that the Italian teen liked to read to France in the evening; the same paintings that France had everywhere in his house, some stolen, some gifted…

There was a light veil of tears burning into Italy's eyes, and France found himself moving forwards again, arms ready to envelop the other again, wanting to hide him from the war he so despised, hide him from the world… but Italy shook his head and backed away from him, biting down on his lips.

"No" he stated, one hand pressed against France's chest. "From tomorrow, we're enemies in the battlefield. I must be strong because my people want this, and… and I want it too, ve~".

France's arms fell at his sides and he nodded wordlessly.

"You'll become a Nation, Feli," he murmured, looking outside.

Now he knew what Italy found so beautiful of him. His freedom.

The thought brought bitterness to him, but he hid it under a smile.

"I will" there was a strange sort of determination in his tone that surprised France. "And once I am… maybe… just maybe… I'll be considered worth it".

France's eyes widened "Feli–"

A pair of lips pressed softly against his own.

For a moment, France didn't know what to do. For the first time in a long, long while, France was left utterly speechless and unable to think.

Italy –his sweet little brother, the person he might feel something for– was kissing him.

It was hesitant and gently, a mere pressure, so smooth and warm, and France was acutely aware of the hand that was placed over his heart, light as a feather, of how Italy's eyes were shut close, of how his shoulders were trembling…

Then he was kissing back.

Mind reeling in shock, parts of him shouting contradicting orders in his brain (_'stop this, damn you –stop it before he realises… stop this before you start thinking you can…' _or _'hold him close. Don't let him go. if he understands what he's doing–'_), France didn't move, yet kissed Italy back.

His lower lip gently moved to part Italy's, his tongue coming to lick at them, with a slow, hesitant pace, almost as if waiting for Italy to pull away –yet he didn't.

Italy's tongue shyly met his own.

Their bodies were still apart –barely touching each other, barely feeling the warmth radiating from their close frames– but neither made a move to erase the gap.

When Italy finally pulled away, France remained motionless, watching the Italian teen step away from him with slow, unsure steps.

"Once, someone I loved left me to go to war" Italy murmured, fingers coming to press against his lips, cheeks flushed of a beautiful red. "I told him that at my house, people kiss their loved ones".

France felt a strong pain in his chest at the mention of the person he had grown to consider his r… no, the person that he had ultimately brought down.

"Now, I am going to war myself," Italy looked up at France again. "And I am doing the same for you".

Closing his eyes, France tried to deny whatever implication there was in Italy's words, unable to accept the heartfelt confession, but the Italian teen didn't let him time to think it through.

"Francis, things are going to change. My people demanded a price of me when they decided to start a war. Tomorrow, I fear things will change forever, but before they do… for today, at least for today…" he paused, searching for something in France's eyes. "For today, I am Feliciano, not yet a nation, not yet… Italy. And this me belongs to you".

France understood.

Of course he did –he knew Italy since they were both little kids.

If Italy turned victorious and became a Nation, it would be thanks to the thing he despised the most. Even if he remained unchanged afterwards, something would be different forever, something would be lost.

Because to a soul like that of Italy, war was nothing but an infection.

But Italy was offering this sweet innocence of his _to him_, of all people –because he trusted him, because he lov…

With a jolt, France realised why the word 'brother' had never been uttered by Italy.

Warmth unlike any other filled him, of a bittersweet quality again, pulsating painfully in his ribcage. He couldn't love Italy, but he could love Feliciano. When he rushed forwards, enveloping Italy in a bone–crushing hug, lips reclaiming those of the soon–to–be–Nation, Italy didn't push him away anymore.

The following day, Italy would leave, and they would fight.

There would be war, there would be pain, and France would soon be back to being old, perverted 'Brother Francis' for the sweet Italian.

Both knew that things between them had an echo that neither could accept yet. Not when one of them was still chased away by guilt, not when the other still considered himself inferior.

But for today only, this little Italian teen still belonged with him. for today only, he could claim what had been offered, and he would embrace the lither body against his own, explore it and lavish it with his love, given and returned.

The future could wait some more, for this moment in France's heart would last forever.

For today only, France could allow himself to love this little Italy.

"_Merci_" he murmured again.

"_Prego_," Feliciano replied.

~………………~

Far away, in a country just as devastated by war, ready to stand up for itself, ready to fight, blue eyes were open and staring at the sky.

There was no past in that gaze, just a huge portion of future still to write.

Things were changing, and that moment that lasted for eternity was just as evanescent as a blossoming flower.

……………………………………………

**SOY:** yes, it's angst. And yes, that's exactly who you think it is.

_Petit Frère (French)_ – little brother

_Merci (French)_ – thanks

_Prego (Italian)_ – you're welcome.


End file.
